


Why Pamper Life's Complexities

by emjam



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Gravity Falls Weirdness, Inspired by Music, Memory Issues, Memory Loss, Pre-Series, Wedding Rings, and quite possibly does not exist, apparently the driver is omniscient, or just weirdness lol, this could count as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 08:49:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11779626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emjam/pseuds/emjam
Summary: A sleek black car putters next to him in the street, a little dinged up, like most things in town, but obviously well cared-for. The hood shines in the afternoon sun. Not a single piece of dirt disgraces the admirable vehicle.Fiddleford looks down at his filthy tank top and dingy cast, feels his stubble - which, wait, that's actually pretty much a beard now, and while he's at it, where did his shoes go - and realizes that maybe there is an unpleasant contrast here, but it's already too late, because someone is already getting out of this magnificent chariot and approaching his woeful spot on the grass.





	Why Pamper Life's Complexities

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason This Charming Man by The Smiths always reminded me of Fiddleford, so here is a fic about that, in which I cherry-picked parts of the song to create something that only slightly resembles the song's actual story lmao. This miiight make more sense if you've heard the song, but this fic is weird regardless??

The grass feels fine between his toes. He takes in the scent of the freshly-mowed strip of grass by the road, as it seems that's where he's currently sitting.

It's not too bad, even though he can't remember when he got here. Or why.

It's easy to forget, he's used to forgetting. Life became so much easier the second he became able to let things go. Time slips between his fingers, and he doesn't scramble to catch it; the process of anxious hair-pulling and leg-shaking and mangling the insides of his cheeks is lost to him, because he always simply wakes up on the other side after succumbing to the unreliable state of his mind.

You can't worry about catching up to something if you forget about it in the first place.

Reality is a little bit slippery when a car horn honks next to him. He abandons the task of tying grass strands together in favor of this new thing sitting next to him, or at least, the first thing that he's actually noticed passing him for the past fifteen minutes or so. He does not stand, but turns his head towards the sound.

A sleek black car putters next to him in the street, a little dinged up, like most things in town, but obviously well cared-for. The hood shines in the afternoon sun. Not a single piece of dirt disgraces the admirable vehicle.

Fiddleford looks down at his filthy tank top and dingy cast, feels his stubble - which, wait, that's actually pretty much a beard now, and while he's at it, where did his shoes go - and realizes that maybe there is an unpleasant contrast here, but it's already too late, because someone is already getting out of this magnificent chariot and approaching his woeful spot on the grass.

He squints upwards, but the sun obstructs his vision. He can barely see the hand held out towards him, but takes it, warm skin on warm skin, and almost wonders when he last touched anyone, but the thought is swallowed by the mental abyss before it fully awakens.

Before he knows it, he is sitting on fine leather seats, and remembers to appreciate them. The interior practically gleams with cleanliness and order. There are no rolled-up magazines or cigarette butts or empty food packaging packed between seats.

And then he realizes he's being talked to. A smooth voice he has trouble hearing but clearly understands asks him where he lives, so he can be dropped off, and that it looked like he needed some help on the side of the road there.

“Oh, I was quite alright there, but it's real nice of ya to help me anyways.” He remembers that he lives at the junkyard, wonders why that is, and tells his strange driver to just drop him off there.

He never looks in the direction of the driver's seat, perplexed by the view outside the passenger seat window. The outside world is blurred and fuzzy, as if the window is a camera that just couldn't focus.

And suddenly it could, and the lines and colors shifting outside the window coalesce into solid shapes that form the entrance to the junkyard. No matter how hard he tries, he can't form a judgement on the length of the car ride, and has no way of knowing how long or how short it was, so he quickly forgets about the odd way time stretched and rushed.

He's about to say thank you and leave the vehicle, when the driver tells him that he should get rid of the rings.

“Oh, sure, I suppose. I don't rightly know why I've been keepin’ ‘em around anyways, don't know who they were for. They just feel important, you see.” He scratches his stubble-turned-beard, and doesn't wonder how the driver knows about those, even though he never made a single mention of them during the drive.

The silence from the driver is somehow loud in his ears.

“Well, thanks, but I oughtta be goin’ now. I'd offer you somethin’, but I don't got nothin’ on me…” The leather seat makes noise as Fiddleford uselessly pats his person for anything worth exchanging.

He blinks, and he's standing in front of the dump, hands hanging at his sides. Gaps in time don't really faze him anymore, as he's experienced them before.

Listlessly standing there listening to the car engine idle behind him for a moment brings him the memory that he has a few valuable invention doohickeys that the kind driver might like as thanks, and he turns around to call out to them.

The empty road stretches from end to unseeable end among the pines, like manifest destiny. Only air sits where his ride once was; the only cars in sight are piles of rusted junk. Silence has reclaimed the junkyard.

On the way to his scrap heap, he wonders whether or not the vehicle was ever there in the first place, and how else he could have gotten back home when the leather and the clean air and the driver’s skin felt so real.

By nightfall he can barely remember the conversation that took place in that radiant black car, but remembers to toss the small velvet ring boxes into a tangled trash heap in the farthest corner of the junkyard. The simple gold bands had never kissed the skin of their intended fingers, or felt the air outside a ring shop. It’s too late for that now. The rings are in perfect condition, but despite all Fiddleford _can’t_ remember, he knows that they’re useless junk. The opportunity to slip either onto anyone's hand is long gone.

The sun sets behind the piles of metal and wood, and he wonders which finger the ring would have gone on - the ring finger or the extra finger next to the pinky - before he suffers a splitting headache that bars the way to further memories.

**Author's Note:**

> I might make this part of a 3-part series of fidds fics inspired by songs, cause I have a few more songs up my sleeve...


End file.
